“Your mother will ask you no questions.”
“She will accept me — with twenty-two years missing from my life?”
“If you were your mother, would you, Nikki?”
She thought of that awhile, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Your mother is you.”
She was again quiet for a while, then “Will you tell her — when I am not with you sometime?”
“I have thought of that also. Your mother is a very strong woman, as you are. But I do not think I will tell her. It would make no difference in her outwardly, but it would add a tiny bit of scar tissue to her heart — and I believe she has enough of that. As you have.”
“Tom,” Nikki said, “when this is over, I am not going to be strong. I am going to be the woman you should have, the woman who—”
“The woman who loved me in Honolulu, who watched me through the night, who held me when my heart was like ice—”
“It was not, Tom. You were ill.”
“Yes, I was. But you knew it.”
“As you knew that I loved you, in spite of — where we were, what I was.”
Later, when the chill of the night seeped into the car, he got the blanket and they put it around themselves, and shared the long night together.
With the dawn, they got out of the car, stretched and walked about for a while. Their breath came from their mouths in white puffs of steam.
They ate again and Alder loaded the shotgun. He drove the car back to the village and took the north road. He followed the storekeeper’s directions and as the sun began to rise over the horizon, the car rolled down to the flats, through which Otter Creek meandered.
Alder saw the smoke of Old Frenchy’s cabin before he saw the cabin itself. It was in a clearing in the center of a thinned out grove of cottonwoods. It was built of poplar logs, from which the bark had long ago been worn. It was no more than twenty by thirty feet, although there was a wing attached to it that was somewhat smaller and was probably a bedroom. A frame attachment to the west side was the kitchen.
There was a barn not too far from the house. It, too, was built of poplar logs. A pole corral was attached to the barn, but there were no animals in it. Chickens scratched in the barnyard. The creek ran past the cabin, a hundred feet from it.
An ancient Ford that had once been red, but was now rusted and battered, was between the cabin and the barn.
Chapter 26
The cabin door was open.
Alder killed the motor. “I don’t think he is here.”
Nevertheless, he reached for the shotgun. He got out, looked at Nikki. She nodded and opened the door on her side.
As they turned toward the cabin, the father of Auguste and Jacques Pleschette filled the doorway. He had obviously been an enormous man in his younger years, but now he was stooped. The skin hung from his face and jowls in folds, and his hair was white. He wore overalls with a bib, a flannel shirt, and old work shoes without laces.
He was a very old man, easily eighty-five, but the years had not taken all the fierceness out of his eyes.
“You goddam leave me ’lone,” he said, as Alder and Nikki approached.
“We are here because of your sons,” Alder said.
“Me, I got no goddam son,” Old Frenchy spat at him. “You get back in that goddam car.”
“Old man,” said Alder, “your goddams are wasted on me. I’ve met your son, Auguste, and I have met Jacques. I am coming into your house.”
“You step through door, I break your goddam head!”
Alder walked up to Pleschette. “Break!”
The fierce old eyes glared at him a moment, then he backed into the house. Alder followed him closely, giving him very little room. Nikki waited outside a moment, then followed.
The interior of the cabin was about what Alder had expected after seeing the exterior. Old Frenchy had lived alone for many years. The furniture remained from the days when his wife had been alive. It was simple, plain.
Everything had been neglected for years. Old Frenchy may have used a broom on the floor, once every several weeks, but he had never used mop and water. Not since the time of his wife. Torn clothing was littered on chairs. The round table, covered by battered oilcloth, was littered with everything, including dirty dishes and spoiled food. Pots and pans stood on the sheet-iron stove. Near the stove, facing an old-fashioned rocking chair, was the television set. It was a once-handsome 21-inch screen, expensive brand.
A door led to the bedroom, another to the kitchen. Alder could look into both rooms. They were on a par with the living room in which he stood.
He emptied a straight-backed chair by the simple expedient of sweeping off everything with a single motion of his hand. Alder nodded to Nikki to take the chair.
Old Frenchy stood with his back to the stove, glaring at Alder. “You goddam lousy millionaire,” he growled, “you come my goddam house you hold your nose like you come in pigpen.”
The French accent was barely noticeable in his regular speech but he hit the d’s in “goddam” so that they sounded almost like t’s.
Alder said, “Has Auguste been here?”
“Auguste! Who Auguste?”
“Your son.”
“Got no goddam son.”
“You said that outside, but you’re wasting your time, old man. We are going to stay here until we get what we came for. You might as well understand that.”
“I would like to see your photograph album,” Nikki said suddenly. Her eyes were on a Shelf that was attached to the wall behind the television set.
“Got no goddam album,” mumbled the old man.
Alder walked to the shelf, shoved articles aside so that several fell to the floor. He took down the album and carried it to Nikki.
“You leave my goddam t’ing alone!” snarled Old Frenchy. He took a tentative step toward Alder, but stopped as Alder’s cold eyes met his. It was eagle versus eagle, and Alder was the younger eagle.
Nikki opened the volume, turned the brittle pages and looked at the faded old photographs, glued to the pages. Alder stood near her, now looking as she turned the pages, now staring down Old Frenchy.
She came to a page, where she paused a moment, before continuing on.
Old Frenchy spat. “Want burn that goddam thing when the Old Woman die. She say, Jacques, they your son. They come home when they got no other home to go to.”
Nikki stopped at a faded snapshot of a boy of about ten. He wore a patched flannel shirt that seemed to be much too big for him, probably cut down from Old Frenchy’s discard. He wore a bib overall that was faded from much washing. His black hair was long, uncombed. His sullen face reminded Alder of a ferret he had once caught in a trap.
There was one more picture of Auguste Pleschette. This one must have been taken shortly before he too left his home. He was already quite tall. He wore a mail-order suit, a shirt with long lapels, and a knitted tie. His hair was slicked down with Vaseline or axle grease.
He was staring at the camera, his eyes slitted.
Nikki looked up at Alder. “The picture is not—”
“I know,” said Alder.
“What you goddam talk about?” rasped Old Frenchy.
“Auguste.”
“I show you Gus,” said Old Frenchy. He started for the kitchen door.
Alder hesitated an instant, then brought up the shotgun and followed. Nikki rose, put the album on the chair and went after them.
The old man led the way through the littered kitchen, out through the back door. Outside, he started toward the barn, but swerved before he reached it and went around the building.
Alder closed up the gap between him and the old man, signaled for Nikki to follow, not too closely.
Fifty feet from the barn were two rectangular mounds. One had a weathered crosspiece stuck into the ground. On it, in faded black paint, was the name: Antoinette. There were only scattered weeds growing on the mound; it had received attention not too many months ago.